


All Darkness and Silence (Sledge/Snafu, The Pacific)

by sevendeadlyfun



Category: The Pacific - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Mild Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 20:05:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevendeadlyfun/pseuds/sevendeadlyfun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There are days when his body does not seem real to him. Days of marching and crouching, of running and falling, when he becomes a sentient piece of meat with no real feeling, numb to the insults of the physical.</i> Feelings creep in, a piece at a time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Darkness and Silence (Sledge/Snafu, The Pacific)

**Characters** : Eugene Sledge/Merriel "Snafu" Shelton

**Rating:** NC-17/ADULT

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction, based solely on the HBO television series and the characters portrayed therein. Any resemblance to men of the same name, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

**Summary:** _There are days when his body does not seem real to him. Days of marching and crouching, of running and falling, when he becomes a sentient piece of meat with no real feeling, numb to the insults of the physical._ Feelings creep in, a piece at a time.

**A/N:** I appear to be fandom hopping at the moment. I think it's because my Yuletide assignment forced me to look at other non-Joss works and now I'm just having fun dabbling. Also, I'm obsessed with ridiculously doomed pairings (zombie apocalypse love, regularly Buffy apocalypse love, Angel: After the Fall) and this seems to fit the bill.

A bit of love to [](http://someonesgrlbomb.livejournal.com/profile)[**someonesgrlbomb**](http://someonesgrlbomb.livejournal.com/) for a wonderful list of Sledge/Snafu fics. You did indeed inspire me to help you add to it. I hope you enjoy this.

Title taken from the poem [Death comes to me again, a girl by Dorianne Laux](http://webdelsol.com/LITARTS/laux/dl-part3.htm)

 

 

There are days when his body does not seem real to him. Days of marching and crouching, of running and falling, when he becomes a sentient piece of meat with no real feeling, numb to the insults of the physical. Each time they return, it takes longer and longer for his body to reconnect with the rest of him.

He feels it slowly – a thawing at the tips of his calloused fingers. They tingle, a mean, sparking sensation that sends a frisson through his core. He slumps down on his cot, eyes only half-open, flexing his fingers in time with the brief shocks of sensation. He is not alive, but he is not dead and that is beginning to be enough.

The tiny sparks become larger, radiating across his body. He stumbles against Snafu in the chow line, his legs suddenly rubbery with returning sensation. He tries to apologize, but his tongue has gone thick and useless. He only shrugs, a half-hearted motion that sends its own wave of shakes and shudders through him.

His body, now far from numb, is confining – his skin grown too small to contain whatever rolls around inside him and he thinks wildly that he’ll just shuck it off, like the stinking dungarees that pile in abandoned heaps at the side of his cot. He sits in silence, picking at the food in front of him, avoiding Snafu’s too bright eyes. The thread of his pulse distracts him; the seams of his uniform chafe - Sledge thinks he’ll never make it back to his hut.

He does.

Shaking, his body fever hot, he strips and crawls gratefully in to the narrow cot. His cock is hard, engorged with blood and pulsing in time with his breath. The walk back was agony but now that he’s here, Sledge doesn’t want to rush.

He can’t remember the last time his body belong to him – responded to his touch, obeyed his whim. The thick swim of arousal is an honest reaction and one belonging only to him. He doesn’t want to waste it.

He moves his hand slowly at first, circling the damp crown of his cock. His hips jerk, once, twice, a swift shudder rippling through his belly. His nail scratches against the sensitive head and his body bows inward as his breath catches on the inhale.

Sledge pulls his hand away, sucking in a lungful of air. It’s too soon and he is too desperate to feel. Something. Anything.

His right and slides across his thigh, dipping down through his wide spread legs.

The door to the hut creaks softly. Sledge doesn’t open his eyes or stop the slow creep of his hand. It was already dark when he walked back. Not much to see in a pitch-black hut.

“Go on,” a familiar voice urges and Sledge breaths in the familiar tang of smoke and sweat.

His hand, now clasped loosely around the base of his erect cock, tightens slightly at the command. He should open his eyes. He should tell Snafu to get out. He shouldn’t still be so hard.

But his body is ready, more than ready, and the feeling of Snafu’s eyes on him doesn’t slow him down. It should. It doesn’t. He wants this, wants to push his body on and get every last bit of feeling he can.

“I said,” Snafu‘s voice is a hoarse whisper, “ _go on_ , Sledgehamma.”

He shudders, pulling roughly on his cock. The hut is silent except for the soft slap of flesh on flesh and his strangled gasps for air. His legs lock, straight, as he reaches for his release.

The sharp burn of Snafu’s fingers pinching and twisting his nipple push him over. All of the sensation – the shifting ache, the harsh chafe – flow through his body and out, following the path of his orgasm. The rough pads of Snafu’s fingers withdraw, leaving his body suddenly bereft of the last shreds of stimulus.

He tries to catch his breath, to think – but even as his mind cools, slows, with thoughts running molasses slow, he can’t quite find words. His words, his armor, his shock and shame, all fled in the undertow, swamped by the vastness of his need. It is Snaf who finds them, returns them to him.

“Don’t think on it,” he croons, sugar-sweet voice brushing aside the silence. “Put it outta yer mind.”

It is such a little thing to hear in the darkness -the shift and rustle of fabric, the creaks and groans of wood, and the subtle hitch of breath. Those little things are lullabies, an absolution of fear and doubt. Sledge follows his words in to the darkness, letting his body fall away.


End file.
